


illusion

by placidings



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drabble, Featuring my favourite rebound couple, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad makeouts, Sloppy Makeouts, The first fic in this ship Tag and it's immediately a momol scene jfc im sorry beshie jpr, Ya'll here's the sad momol fic no one asked for, lmaoooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 21:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12615572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: The world has condemned them to a pathetic and cruel fate, yet it led them to each other; a strange yet comforting thought.Placido & Isagani find each other in the worst time possible. Can these two halves become whole again?





	illusion

**Author's Note:**

> Idea credits go to Stes, AGAIN, because she tweeted [this](https://twitter.com/devalierite/status/920235363817287680) and, well--I'm a huge sucker for this trope and I absolutely have no self-control. She also put the idea of Placiding and Gani being more than just bros through my head, and I haven't stopped thinking about it ever since. This ship is now my guilty pleasure. I love them. 
> 
> Shoutout to [Ara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol), [Nikki](http://kyucaine.tumblr.com/), Lyxia, and Alex (beloved betas) for helping me find out just what the fuck was wrong with the first draft of this thing. I owe you guys.

Behind his closed eyelids, he saw a world he thought he would never see again—a world of vibrant color, of warmth, of pure, unadulterated passion, electric in his veins, pulsating in his chest, and heavy in his lungs. Everything exploded in a phantasm the moment her soft lips collided with his; soft and yielding in their uncertainty, mumbling the words he longed to hear ( _please don't leave, I need you I need you I need you_ ) against his mouth. She was as addicting and intoxicating as the alcohol he tasted on her tongue as she slipped it in between his lips; as it met his own in a dance perfectly in sync. Weakened, he was, clinging tight to the curve of her hips, his fingers sinking into her clothed flesh; desperately holding on to a semblance of stability, of his memory. She stoked the embers in the depths of his hardened, cold heart, sparking something to life once again; rekindling the flame she once ignited. It rose slowly until Isagani is buried, flames lapping at his cold, damp skin, shocking him out of his numbed senses.

He feels, once again. The ice melted, the emptiness filled. He feels. 

* * *

 

He smiles into his kisses—a detail he never forgot, a memory embedded in the deepest recesses of his subconscious. The cheeky, mischievous, trouble-maker grin he always had on his face for the world to see dissipates into something soft and sweet and precious the moment their lips meet. His rambunctious ways, his loud laugh, all melt into a tranquil silence as his fingers, light and deft from years of stroking string, touch his heated skin; the words he could never say melting through his fingertips and weaving itself into his soul. Gentle, he was, surprisingly so; balancing out the tempest that rages inside of him. Calming, he was, even though he provoked the beast that lay sleeping inside him in more ways than one. His lips caressed his agonizingly slowly until all he could see and feel and hear are his symphonies, what he believed to be was his love, him. 

Him. He was a paradox he couldn't even begin to comprehend, yet he didn't mind the confusion. He, after all, was the only thing that made sense in his turmoil. 

 

* * *

He feels. 

Yet the moment Isagani's back meets the rough tree bark, the illusion breaks—the hard contact shatters the trance he was under. He keeps kissing, again and again and again, never yielding in his ministrations; even though her face is fading, steadily burning in the fires of his memory, leaving the ashes of what she used to be–his–in the palm of his hands. Gone, Paulita was. The lips on his weren’t hers, he knew that much, he would know her kiss anywhere, he would know her anywhere: Paulita Gomez would never take lick of alcohol, a bottle of _cerveza_ even more so; Paulita Gomez would never allow her skin to be touched by the coarse fabric of a _camisa_ ; Paulita Gomez would never set foot in the forest he was in, nor would she be filled with an aggression and a tempest that seemed to burn through his skin, leaching on through his soaked clothes. No, this was not Paulita Gomez, for Paulita Gomez was standing in the dark halls of Kapitan Tiago's house, clinging to the arm of her newly-wedded husband in fear of the tumult he left in his wake. 

He feels, and the fires of jealousy, of pain, rage in his chest; trapping a guttural scream in his throat. The fantasy breaks, he is, once again, submerged in the dark with only the light of his dreams, of his love, of his passion going up in flames breaking his pitch black vision. 

He cries, his tears spilling down his cheeks hot and fast. A choked sob escapes his throat and he pushes at him harder, insistent; as though he was begging him to stay in the illusion they were in with him. 

Isagani still kisses him. When his hands find his hair and his greedy fingers tug harshly on the strands; when his teeth find his lips, biting hungrily; when his lips, his tongue, his teeth leave marks on the skin of his neck, he doesn’t fight the shock of pleasure that courses through his limbs–he does not open his eyes, because behind his closed eyelids, it is Paulita evoking these sensations from deep within him. He doesn’t fight the noise that escapes his lips—a cross between a sob and a moan, he thinks—nor does he apologize when her name rolls off his tongue carelessly. 

Her name melts into his mouth as he kisses him again, rougher this time, sure to bruise. His grip on his slender waist tightens. Against his lips he mumbles a plea— _please don't leave me like this_. 

* * *

 

Turmoil—Placido had a turmoil raging inside of him; an amalgamation of envy, of anger, of indignance, of the harsh sting of abandonment. His words echoed loud and clear in his head: I do. His smile, the smile he had once pressed his lips against, burned behind his closed eyelids; for the last time he saw it, he was not looking at him, but at his bride, for all of Manila and the saints of heaven to see. An escape is what he needed, so he ran, the way he always did, and somewhere along the way he found himself with an empty bottle of Cerveza smashed to pieces on the soil beside him, his fists wounded and bleeding as he punched the tree in front of him; screaming in agony as his touch, his words, his face haunted him and clawed at him, dragging him deeper and deeper into the grave he dug himself the moment he allowed himself to fall in love with him, with Juanito. 

He sobs, once again. He suppresses his cries by pushing harder, deeper until his back meets the rough bark of the tree he pressed him up against, his tears mingling with his; hot and wet on the skin where his face met his. He clung to him desperately, silently pleading him to keep him stable, to keep him sane, to never let go; for if he does he would have to feel the burn, the sting, the wounds Juanito left in his wake. 

And so, Placido still kisses him; his grip on the sleeve of his damp jacket tightening. His hands find his hair and his teeth finds his lips and his lips touch his skin; tasting the salt of his tears, of his despair, and he knows it is a grave sin to commit, a disgusting one at that, to imagine it is Juanito’s skin he is bruising. Her name falls from his mouth desperately, igniting a flare of irritation deep in his gut—he swallows it by capturing his lips in his once more, rougher, making sure his kiss would bruise. The hands cradling his waist grasps at his flesh harder; Placido recognizes the same plea against his lips—he squeezes his clothes in response: please don't leave me here to burn.

* * *

 

The illusion breaks—even through his numbed and hazy senses, Placido knew Juanito’s eyes were a light, striking shade of hazel; clear even in the darkest of nights, not a deep, deep black that mirrored the anguish he forced himself to swallow. 

The illusion breaks—Isagani does not want to open his eyes for fear of what he would find, for fear of having the pain he wanted so badly to forget come back twice as heavy and thrice as strong. 

The illusion breaks—they stand there, underneath the trees which concealed the lights of the merriment in the city and the light of the stars; in the dark, with their foreheads pressed together, their hands loosely clutching on to each other’s flesh, two lost, abandoned souls longing for a semblance of the home and the love they lost, their hearts thrumming with the hope of finding it in each other.

The illusion breaks—what is left is a plethora of questions; a large mass of uncertainty that settles in their guts. Such questions demand answers, but as Placido buries himself in Isagani's chest and as Isagani holds Placido; they decide to leave it for tomorrow, when the sting and the pain and the loss do not feel as debilitating and paralyzing as it was in that moment. 

"I'm—I'm sorry," Placido whispers, his trembling voice cutting through the dense silence.

Isagani pulls him closer instinctively. "I'm sorry, too." 

"What do we do now?"

He sighs, thinking of his marked-up skin and his kiss-swollen lips and his messy hair and the person he shared the burden of abandonment with—the world has condemned them to a pathetic and cruel fate, yet it lead them to each other; a strange yet comforting thought. 

Isagani knows they were going to part ways sooner or later, and whatever it was that the kiss formed between them was bound to break in the future.

But then again, neither one of them wanted to be alone. 

"We leave this place."

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense, they DO know each other--at least, I think so, judging from the scene in Kabanata 19. They never really interacted in canon, but imagine the possibilities: Placido, with his controlled temperament; Isagani, impulsive, probably acts before he thinks (then again, that's Placido too, at wit's end). Slight opposites, but not so much that they wouldn't have a common ground (they actually do, in the form of Paulita & Juanito. Plus, discourse. DISCOURSE. A logician & a future lawyer??? Imagine the conversations between these two). It could work. You know. If they don't use each other as rebounds. lol
> 
> anyway, pls talk to [me](https://twitter.com/Iakambini) about this ship [i](http://tanginae.tumblr.com/) love them


End file.
